An Opera with Skyscrapers and Waffles
by Theater Raven
Summary: A crossover with The Producers. Max and Leo are trying to find another flop for Broadway. They soon stumble upon something Erik would have liked to remain hidden.
1. Find the Flop

**Chapter One**

"Leo!"

There was no reply.

"Leo, Leo, Leo! Wake up!"

With a groggy moan, clutching his blue blanket, Leo Bloom sat up from where he had been sleeping on the couch.

"I'm sorry, Max," he said sleepily.

The two men had pulled another all-nighter trying to find yet another flop for Broadway.

"I think it was the Chinese food we had last night that put me to sleep."

"Never mind that, Leo, never mind, come take a look at this."

Leo stood up and joined Max on the other side of the room, having to navigate his way through a canyon of manuscripts that were piled high to get there. At last reaching his friend, Leo sat down, looking at Max curiously.

"What is it?"

There was a pause. Then, Max started to giggle as he continued to read the book he was apparently engrossed in. Leo moved closer, starting to feel a hysterics attack coming from Max's incessant, excited laughter.

"What, Max, what? Did you find another_ Springtime for Hitler_?"

This only made Max laugh harder. Leo yanked the book out of his hands. Max was now all but rolling on the couch in his fit, his eyes clenched shut, tears streaming down his face.

"Max, will you tell me what's going on?"

Gasping for breath and finally sitting up, Max rested a hand on Leo's shoulder.

"_Sp—Springtime for Hitler_?" he gasped, "_Springtime for Hitler_? Leo, listen to me. This is a gem! This is a beauty! This will out-springtime_ Springtime for Hitler_! This—this is the worst piece of crap to ever be run through a publishing house! This is practically _The Phantom of the Opera_ meets_ Annie_!"

"Why, Max? What is it?" Leo asked excitedly.

"Just read the synopsis."

Leo read:

"In turn-of-the-century New York City, a disfigured musical genius becomes a business tycoon to lure the woman he loves to his side. In these tragic circumstances, he discovers amazing things about himself and the people around him, and the famous love triangle that started it all will once again rear its tragic head."

"It gets worse," Max said, "He writes an opera to get the girl from Paris to New York, and you would think the girl would have some common sense and see that the opera is very similar to the one he wrote for her last time. Oh, yeah, and this music master and the girl had a little roll in the hay at the most random time possible and she has his kid."

Leo stared.

"Wait until you see the title."

Leo closed the book and read the cover.

"_The Phantom of Manhattan_, by Frederick Forsyth."


	2. Creative Teams and Auditions

**Chapter Two**

"Yesssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss . . . . ssss?"

Max and Leo waited for Carmen to finish his usual greeting.

"Afternoon, Carmen," Max said, "We're here to see Roger."

"Ooooh," Carmen exclaimed, over exaggeratingly clapping his hands, "What do we have today, another smash hit in the works?"

"Yeah, sure, something like that," Max said as he and Leo stepped into the colorful townhouse.

"Well, why didn't you say so when I first opened the door? Make yourselves comfortable. I'll go fetch Roger."

Max and Leo seated themselves as Carmen disappeared through a set of double doors.

"But, Max," Leo said anxiously, tugging on his friend's sleeve, "The novel's awful. It completely contradicts and disgraces the original!"

"Exactly—it won't last two days onstage. Now shut up and remember what we did to sign these two on to do _Springtime._"

"All right, all right."

At that moment, the doors opened and Roger De Bris appeared in a large, flowing yellow ball gown.

"The choreographer's ball is tonight," he explained as he made his entrance.

"Of course it is," Max muttered sarcastically.

"So, Carmen tells me you fellows have a new play in the works?"

"Uh—yes! Yes, we do, and let me say, Roger, after the success of _Springtime for Hitler_, we thought, _What better man to direct this beauty than our good friend, Roger?_ Isn't that right, Leo?"

There was a pause. Max sharply elbowed Leo in the ribs.

"Yes! Of course we did!" Leo exclaimed, rubbing his side.

"Well, I'm flattered! Simply flattered!" Roger cried. "So, tell me, what is the piece about?"

Leo and Max gave him a brief synopsis of the novel. There was a pause afterwards. Carmen and Roger were staring at them, their eyes wide, their mouths agape.

"Brilliant! That is_ brilliant_!" shrieked Roger. "What innovation! What uniqueness! What a fresh, interesting take on such a classic tale!"

"Then, you'll do it?"

"Give me time to think about it—of course I will!"

"Fantastic!" cried Max.

"That's wonderful," Leo agreed.

"Carmen, darling, check our schedule—are we free Saturday?"

Carmen walked to a desk drawer and pulled out a day planner.

"Yes, we are, Roger."

"Fabulous! Max, Leo, meet us here Saturday, at, let's say, around 2:00, for brunch. We'll start going over how to adapt the book. Oh, but, of course, I'm already bubbling over with ideas . . ."

"Well, we're free today, Roger—why not start now? The sooner we get this baby onstage, the better, right?"

"Correct, Max. All right, what I had in mind is . . ."

Several months later, a long line of actors had formed outside a small auditorium. They stood in front of a poster that said, "Open Auditions for the Role of Erik, The Phantom of the Opera—No Previous Experience Necessary".

"_Next_!" Carmen screamed.

A little old man walked disappointedly off the stage. Another man entered.

"State your name, please," Carmen said crisply.

"Ralph."

"All right, Ralph, what are you going to sing for us?"

There was a pause.

"Wait, I have to sing?"

". . . . Yesssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss," Carmen answered with a roll of his eyes.

Ralph ran offstage, terrified.

"_Next_!"

At the table several rows back, Max, Leo, and Roger sat, watching auditions. Leo was clutching his blue blanket nervously and Max had his head bent down over the audition forms.

"It's a long process, I know," Roger said, "But don't you worry—before we know it, the actor with the voice of an angel will stride to the center of that stage."

Max silently prayed that such an event would not take place. The next auditioner was making his way center stage. The three men at the table, however, were talking amongst themselves and did not see him.

"State your name," Carmen said with a tone that hinted at exhaustion.

"Franz Liebkind."

All three men at the table looked up.

_You_ are_ good,_ Max thought, looking skyward.

"What are you going to sing, Franz?"

"_Die Wacht am Rhein_," was the answer.

Carmen blinked, Roger stared blankly, Leo clutched his blanket closer to him, and Max began to get a strange feeling in his stomach about where this was going.

"All right, go ahead," Carmen said.

Franz started to sing.

"Quite talented, isn't he?" Roger whispered to Max and Leo, "I mean . . ."

"Do you even know what he's saying?"

"Not a clue, but it sounds good anyway."

Suddenly, Franz was interrupted as a guy came running out onstage and started singing "_La Marseillaise_".

"I knew it . . ." Max muttered to himself. He stood up.

"What the hell is this, _Casablanca_?" he screamed and the two actors onstage stopped singing.

Franz glared at the other actor and started ranting at him in German. Everyone stared blankly, even the actor who was getting screamed at. Carmen opened his mouth to scream, "Next!", but Roger summoned him over.

"Do you see that? The anger, the rage, the complete absorbtion in his words? That's . . . that's . . ."

Max and Leo looked at each other.

"It's wild, it's crazy—even for _Manhattan_," Max said, nodding, "But . . ."

He stood up, pointing at Franz.

"That's our Erik!"

"Max!" Leo cried, pulling his friend back into his seat, "Are you mad? Casting an ex-Nazi as a _deformed_ musical genius? There's no way he'll take the role."

"I'll do it!" Franz screamed.

"It's completely disrespectful to the character!" Leo went on.

"And the actor who's playing him couldn't be more opposite than the character, Leo. No way in hell will he be able to transform himself into Erik. And with Ulla as Christine? Franz_ hated_ working with her in rehearsals before. No offense, but she's a few tacos short of a lunch special platter, Leo. If we make it to opening night without him killing her, it'll be a miracle."

Leo sighed.

"Well, when do we start rehearsals?"


	3. Going Into Rehearsals

**Chapter Three**

"Come on, come on, everybody! Let's get going!" Carmen screamed from the house.

Max, Leo, Roger, and Carmen were sitting out in the audience. Rehearsals had started only a week or two ago, but Max and Leo knew they had stumbled upon the greatest flop in musical theater history. The opening number was ridiculous enough to the point where it could not be taken seriously, Ulla's dialogue was delivered in a way that was so wooden it would make Pinocchio jealous—her singing was barely above her acting—and that was only the beginning of the list of why the show was such a disaster. The plot was so awful that there was not much that could be done to improve it. After all, the plot of a show is like a building's foundation—with a weak foundation, the building did not stand a chance.

"Let's go from the opening, and afterwards, we'll break for dinner!"

A bed slid onto the stage. Lying beneath the dreary covers, the dying Madame Giry uttered her last words:

"You may think . . . the incident at the Opera was the last anyone ever heard from Erik . . . but you would be wrong."

She died, the bed slid offstage, and the set changed, showing the skyline of turn-of-the-century New York. The music began for the opening number. Franz, dressed in clothes of the time period, wearing a mask, a top hat, and carrying a cane, entered and began to sing:

"Start spreading the news.  
I'm leaving today.  
I want to be a part of it—

New York, New York.  
These vagabond shoes  
are longing to stray  
and make a brand new start of it.  
New York, New York!  
I want to wake up

in the city that never sleeps  
to find I'm king of the hill,

top of the heap.  
These little town blues  
are melting away.  
I'll make a brand new start of it  
in old New York.  
If I can make it there,  
I'll make it anywhere.  
It's up to you, New York, New York."

The musical break started. The ensemble—chorus girls carrying gunny sacks with green dollar signs painted on them—came out and started tap dancing behind Franz. He strutted in front of them.

"Work the cane, Franz! Work the cane!" Max yelled.

Franz twirled the cane.

"Good! Good! Now, flip the hat a little, do something with the hat!"

Franz improvised a little movement with his top hat, throwing it up in the air and spinning around in a circle, stopping just in time to catch the hat as it fell back down. Then, time came for him to sing again.

"I want to wake up

in the city that never sleeps  
to find I'm king of the hill,

top of the heap.  
These little town blues  
are melting away.  
I'll make a brand new start of it  
in old New York.  
If I can make it there,  
I'll make it anywhere.  
It's up to you . . ."

Franz dropped his hat and cane and moved backwards to the center of dancing chorus girls. The girls dropped their bags of money. Franz put his arms around the two girls on either side of him, now making up the center of the line. They started doing a can can for the big finish.

"New York, New York!"

The chorus girls surrounded Franz, looking at him adoringly, as dollar bills dropped like confetti from the ceiling.

The men sitting in the house jumped up, applauding madly.

"Fabulous! Simply breathtaking and fabulous!" shouted Carmen.

Franz was grinning from ear to ear.

"Thank you!" he beamed. "I must tell my birds!"

"You do that," Max said, smiling, "Everyone else, break for dinner."

The next morning, in a corner booth at Sardi's, Max and Leo sat sipping coffee as the waiter left with their order.

"This is perfect—perfect!" Max exclaimed excitedly. "Did you see that opening last night? I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing!"

"It _is_ pretty funny," Leo agreed. "I mean, who ever heard of a musical genius becoming a business tycoon? It just doesn't add up."

There was a pause.

"Yeah, you kind of did it the other way around," Max said, "An accountant that turns to being a Broadway producer."

"Good point," Leo said with a chuckle.

Their food arrived. Diving hungrily into his bowl of oatmeal, Leo looked up at Max, who was enjoying a fried egg sandwich.

"What's the plan for when we get to rehearsal?"

Max grinned.

"The scene with Ulla and I can't wait. Franz's patience has been growing thin with her. This is gonna be great."

Leo nodded. The scene Max was referring to was in the funhouse of mirrors at Coney Island's amusement park. Rigging the mirrors so that he remained hidden, Erik confronted Christine with the fact that he had discovered that he was the father of Christine's son, Pierre. Here, he also confessed his still-steadfast love for Christine and begged for her to stay, or, if she chose to remain with her husband, Raoul, to at least leave him Pierre. Christine refused both requests, but reasoned with Erik that she, Raoul, and Pierre would meet with him later to tell Pierre the truth about his parentage and then Pierre could choose for himself what he wanted to do.

"It seems a lot of pressure to put on a little boy," Leo had said.

"I know, but Christine's a ditz like that. Honestly, if she couldn't make up her mind as to what to do in the original book when she was only sixteen, how could she expect a ten-year-old kid to make such a big choice?" Max had scoffed.

Carmen and Roger, however, had found the scene very moving, as had Franz, but Ulla's weak acting was slowly aggravating Franz's temper, which was legendary as it was.

"Well, we'd better get going," Max said, "It's going to be an interesting rehearsal."

"But. Erik," Ulla said in a monotone voice that made her performance sound like that of a bad, cheap soap opera, "I. Cannot—."

"Halt! Halt!" Franz suddenly screamed, interrupting the scene and coming out from behind the mirror where he was hiding.

"No, no, no! Just—this woman cannot play Christine Daaé! Christine wasn't an unattractive, wimpy little daddy's girl—Christine was a pretty, treacherous showgirl! And that is _not_ how you carry a dramatic conversation with a stalker! _This_ is how you carry a dramatic conversation with a stalker!"

And before his colleagues' eyes, Franz began acting out the entire scene by himself, hiding behind the mirror as Erik and then running out in front of it as Christine, saying her lines in a surprisingly high, girlish voice. By the time he was done, he was gasping for breath and had to go offstage to get a drink of water. He came storming back onstage.

"Now, Ulla, do you understand?"

He looked for her, but she was gone.

"Ulla? Where is she?"

"She left," Max said with a knowing grin, glancing at the seat next to him where Leo used to be.

"What? Why?"

"It's 11:00."


	4. Finding Raoul

**Chapter Four**

The cast had been in rehearsals for only a little over a month, and already, the show was a disaster. Franz would sometimes become so aggravated he would start ranting away in German, Ulla's acting and singing had not improved in the slightest, and the songs kept getting happier and happier with each number. The choreography was not much better.

"All right, people, let's go into the 'Pierre's conception' sequence!" shouted Scott, the choreographer, on Friday. "I know we've never run through this number before, but let's try and do our best."

Franz and Ulla took their places, each on opposite sides of the stage.

"Five, six! Five, six, seven, eight!"

Heavy fog suddenly filled the set and lush, sappy violin music filled the air.

"My darling Christine," Franz exclaimed, beginning the scene, "Why else would you have come back here if it was not in order to . . .?"

Ulla kept her back to him.

"No? Very well, my dear, I'm not afraid to come to_ you_!"

Franz leapt with gazelle-like grace across the stage toward Ulla. He was now standing behind her.

"I can't," she said, her back still to him.

Franz reached out and touched her hair, his fingers barely grazing it.

"Yes, you can," he said, his voice as gentle as a kitten's meow, but with the next line, his voice changed into that of the lion's snarl, covered in a film of ravenous male desire, "And yes, you_ will_."

He reached forward from behind to pull her to him, and at his touch, she collapsed against him.

"Oh, Erik!"

"My Christine! I taught you to feel the music you're singing; I taught you all I know, but let me ask you this—."

"Yes, Erik?"

"Can you feel _the love_ tonight?"

She turned to him, her eyes aflame. She playfully pushed him back. He pushed her. This repelling movement led them into a tango. Then, Franz swept Ulla up into his arms, and _this_ led them into a graceful-yet-suggestive ballet routine. The scene _finally_ ended with the two of them on the floor, Ulla rising from being sprawled on top of Franz, and she said, "Raoul shan't know!" and leapt offstage. Franz sat up, the desirous look still on his face, a hint of surprise to it.

"Wow," he said, "I'm good!"

"What do you mean?" Leo asked, standing up, a tint of anger in his voice.

"Actually, that was great," Max said, "How'd you get Ulla to be so . . . what's the word? . . . enthusiastic?"

"It was easy," Franz said, "I just told her to pretend it's 11:00."

Franz got to his feet to move on to the next scene, noticing that Leo was hiding his tomato-red face behind his blue blanket.

The moment Max and Leo exited the rehearsal hall that day, Max burst into laughter.

"It's—not—funny," Leo said through gritted teeth, his face reddening again.

"Are you mad? That was _hilarious_! I mean, did you see the expressions on their faces? Franz looked so anxious that I thought he would rip his pants at the seams to get them off if he had to, and Ulla! Pretend it's 11:00! What exactly do you two_ do_ at 11:00?"

Max was laughing so hard he had to stop walking to collect himself—tears were running freely down his face and he looked ready to wet his pants.

"I'm making you treat for dinner, I really am," Leo said.

"Leo, I'll be happy to treat the _whole cast_ to dinner if it would keep comedy like that a-comin'!" Max exclaimed, his laughter finally dying down a bit as he opened the door to the local diner that was just down the street from the rehearsal hall. The restaurant was not Sardi's by any means, but it was a place where one could get good, simple food for cheap and was therefore a local haunt for upcoming artists.

"There's still one little problem," Leo said as they sat at a table, "We still have no Raoul."

This was true. The Raoul they had cast, after he read the script, had mysteriously come down with a cold, which, he said, could only be cured if he fled immediately to recuperate in Barbados.

"I know. But, hey, he'll show up when we least expect it, Leo. You wait and see."

"But how, Max? We closed auditions."

The two began to study their menus.

"All right, everybody!" shouted a voice from the stage in the back of the diner, "Are you ready for open mike night?"

Everyone cheered. Max and Leo glanced up from their menus. Max elbowed Leo, winking.

"Great!" said the waiter, who was standing on the platform. "Now, we're going to begin the evening with a newcomer. He's from Florida and he really needs no introduction. So, without further ado, let's give a hand to . . . Ricardo!"

The waiter disappeared, the audience politely applauding as the man he was introducing appeared onstage. Max and Leo's jaws dropped. Ricardo's afro-styled hair was dyed orange and was besprinkled with sparkly sequins, as were his eyebrows. He was clad in a bright, multi-colored suit that looked like a court jester's outfit, and when he opened his mouth and sang, he had a voice that sounded like that of a eunuch.

"That . . ." Max said, his eyes widened, "Is our Vicomte Raoul de Chagny."

The two producers were so excited by this new discovery that they asked the waiter that came to take their order to invite Ricardo over to their table. The young performer arrived.

"Ricardo, brilliant performance, absolutely brilliant," Max said, inviting him to sit. "You're new here in New York? Well, let me just speak for both Mr. Bloom and myself when I say that we are thrilled to be the first to find you."

"Thank you," Ricardo said, "But, what exactly do you mean?"

"Listen, kid, we have been searching and searching for weeks to find the right actor to play a role in an upcoming play. It's going to be on Broadway, and the role is quite a large one. Well, imagine our luck when we saw the actor we wanted—you."

Ricardo's sequin-adorned eyebrows shot up like rockets.

"Me?" he exclaimed, "You want_ me_ to originate a large role in a Broadway production?"

"Of course!" Max cried.

"Yes—we couldn't see any other actor in the role!" Leo added.

"Well, I—I'm honored. Tell me more about it."

"Well, the musical is called_ The Phantom of Manhattan_. You would be playing the dashing, elegant Vicomte Raoul, a young man who has won the heart of a beautiful opera singer . . ."

"Yes, yes, go on."

"And you travel to turn-of-the-century New York, with your new wife and son, and you must confront your wife's former music teacher, a man who is terribly in love with her—."

"Ooooh, a love triangle!"

"Yes, yes. And then, when the confrontation is about to take place, your wife is killed. You see, her music teacher has since become a business tycoon. He promised his business, after his death, to his business partner. But it turns out that the child your wife had is actually the music teacher's, not yours—you already know this because you're . . . er, sterile—but once the business partner learns this, he attempts to kill the boy; he misfires his gun and kills your wife. You end up returning to your native Paris alone, as the child decided to stay in New York with his biological father, and you die old and alone just before the Nazi invasion of Paris."

There was a pause. Max and Leo looked at Ricardo. Black streams were running down Ricardo's face, as his heavy eye makeup had started to run due to his tears.

"That is the most beautiful tragedy I've ever heard," he said, "I'd be honored to play the role."


	5. A Threat Backstage

**Chapter Five**

"He's fantastic!" Max whispered to Leo as they sat watching the rehearsal unfolding, "He's brilliant! He's terrific!"

"Stop—you're impossible! This is the last time I'm going to tell you," the accompanist in the orchestra pit screamed to Ricardo. "_Feel_ the music!"

Ricardo had only joined the cast three days ago, but he was proving to be a failure beyond Max and Leo's wildest dreams. A scowl crossed the young actor's glittery face. The accompanist glared back.

"Again!" he instructed to Ricardo. "Sing!"

Ricardo attempted the first few words.

"No, no, no!" shrieked the accompanist.

Ricardo threw down his script.

"I can't work like this!" he yelled to the accompanist.

Kevin, the costume designer, came running out, an unfinished costume in hand.

"Hey," he said, pointing a pair of scissors at Ricardo, "Are you yelling at my brother?"

"Devin," Ricardo continued in frustration, "This role was scored for a baritone!"

"Your point?" Devin, the accompanist, asked with a bored arch of his eyebrows.

"I can't reach those notes. They're too low!"

"Not with that attitude, you won't."

"Raoul literally has no—," Ricardo made a swooping gesture to his pants. "Why the hell would he have a baritone voice, anyway?"

"It's for contrasting purposes!" Devin cried. "Erik's a tenor!"

"Yeah!" Franz chimed in.

"Oh, shut up, you nutty Nazi!" Ricardo screamed, turning to Franz, "First, Erik seduces my wife, then he tries to win her over . . . _again_ . . . then, he—."

"Hey, I can't help it if I'm mysterious and darkly sexy!"

"You look like a runaway Halloween store display!"

Franz's lower lip quivered.

"I'm—I'm telling my birds!"

Franz ran offstage, crying.

"Aww, poor Franz," Leo murmured. "Should I go talk to him?"

"Nah—he'll bounce right back," Max said. "Besides, his character's used to getting insulted."

"I think I'm still going to go talk to him," Leo said, rising from his chair.

Leo made his way backstage, going through the wings. It was dark and dusty, and the smell of musty costumes, takeout food, and makeup filled the air—the familiar, sweet smells of the life of the theater. He saw a hunched figure seated on a crate near the door to the greenroom.

"Franz? You okay?" he asked, approaching.

"I don't like what you're doing," the figure said in a muffled voice. It sounded as if he had been crying.

"Listen, I found it harsh, too, but Ricardo's new and—."

The figure suddenly sat up, rigid. He reached out and seized Leo by the throat. His hand was cold and bony.

"No," the figure said, pulling Leo close to him, "I _really _don't like what you're doing."

"Um, Franz, may I suggest some lotion for your hands? They really feel like they could use—."

Leo was drawn so close to the figure now that he could feel hot infuriated breath on his face.

"I wouldn't take it _too_ harshly. Ricardo only meant—."

"You will _never_ disgrace my name as you have been doing the past few weeks ever again—not in _this_ theater or anywhere else, understand? Nowhere!"

A pair of eyes glowed at Leo with an anger that was so fiery it froze him.

"My life's work has been only to showcase the beauty of the arts, to praise my muses, and you—_you_!—Not here, not anywhere, understand? If you so much as utter_ one more note_ of this, you will eternally regret it, I swear to it!"

Leo felt himself released. He stood rubbing his sore neck and looked up just in time to see the figure vanish into the darkness.


	6. The First Note

**Chapter Six**

"My blanket! My blue blanket!" Leo screamed, running out of the wings and flailing his arms around, "Where is my blue blanket?"

"Leo, what the hell is wrong with you?" Max asked, annoyed that Leo had interrupted the scene in rehearsal. "I haven't seen you this upset since you went to check the time and mistook 11:00 p.m. for 11:00 _a.m._"

"Max, Max, you are not going to_ believe_ what just happened to me! I went to talk to Franz and . . . and . . . I saw him."

"Leo, I know Franz is kind of scary in dimly lit settings, but he's not that bad, once you get past the swastika armband staring at you from out of the dark, I mean . . ." Max trailed off, giving a shudder.

"No, no, no! I didn't see Franz, it was—."

"What? It was what?"

By this point, Leo was in his chair beside Max, trembling and cuddling his blue blanket as if his life depended on it. He leaned forward so that his face was inches from Max's.

"There really _is_ a phantom."

"Leo, you need a mint," Max said, leaning back so their faces were not so close, "And what are you talking about, there really is a phantom?"

"I just saw him. He_ threatened_ me!"

"What?"

"He grabbed me by the throat and said if we kept doing the show, we'd 'eternally regret it' and that he swore to that fact. Max, I don't know who that guy is, but any threat that uses the words, _eternally_ and _I swear to it_, I take extremely seriously!"

Max stared at the petrified Leo.

"Leo, you've lost it. It was probably just a stagehand pulling a prank."

"Well, do any of our stagehands have glowing yellow eyes? _He_ did."

"It was probably two lights shining into the wings."

"But, Max—Max, we never should've started this."

"This is nothing. I'll—."

"—Tell me when we're getting in too deep, I know, I know," Leo said with a sigh, nervously looking around the theater.

Things in rehearsal were uneventful for the next few days, but soon, the tranquility was interrupted.

"Roger, darling! Max! Leo! Ricardo! Franz! Anyone within hearing distance of my hysterical shrieking!" Carmen yelled as he came dashing onto the stage one morning.

"What is it_ now_?" Max asked with a roll of his eyes.

"Yes, Carmen, dear, what is it?" Roger asked.

Carmen was standing onstage, a piece of paper in his hands. His face was as white as a sheet.

"He wants waffles," Carmen said in a frightened whisper.

"What?"

"He wants_ waffles_!" Carmen shouted. "Listen to this."

And he read what was written on the paper.

"I gave the position of messenger to that blanket-toting friend of yours. I would have assumed he relayed my message to you about the stoppage of this insulting, completely false portrayal of my life, yet it appears that, due to the preoccupation his mind must take of remembering to meet his wife _every day_ at 11:00 a.m. for a rendezvous in the wings—the actions of which I have been unfortunate to see on more than one occasion—he has forgotten to tell you. Therefore, I shall inform you myself. If it would so please the cast and crew of this production, immediate halting of rehearsing would be of great service to me. As I had long been paid a handsome salary of 20,000 francs a month, I can assure you that compensation for the time you have spent here shall be made to each and every one of you, though why you chose to work on this horrendous project in the first place is beyond me. I would also request that all media coverage of this upcoming production be erased to give the illusion that, in short, this project was never undertaken at all—compensation shall also be made to the various news studios as needed.

If, however, you refuse these simple requests, I shall have no choice but to sue you for every additional day this musical remains in production, and said charges will amount to a great sum, I guarantee it. Since the legal matters would take more than one letter to clarify, I will simply say that, should the action of the law be required, my lawyer, Mackintosh S. Feldman, will explain said matters when you arrive in the courtroom. I thank you for your immediate departure, yet if you refuse to leave, do not claim that you were not warned. My decision is final, yet if you wish to _attempt_ to reason with me, I will accept peace offerings in the form of waffles—see the recipe below. Please refer to the image on the front of any standard box of Eggo's as to how I expect the waffles to be presented."

There was a pause.

"What the hell is_ that_ about?" Max exclaimed. "Carmen, who wrote that note? Where did you find it?"

"It was in my dressing room," Carmen said, "And he signed it, _A Phantom_."

"You see?" Leo exclaimed, terrified, clutching his blue blanket, "I told you! I _told you_ what I saw!"

"Leo, it appears you're on to something," Max said, "I'm sorry I doubted you."

"That's all right, Max."

"Thanks, Leo. All right, gang, Leo and I are leaving Devin in charge. He'll be running rehearsal the rest of the day. Leo, you're coming with me."

"Why, Max? Where are we going?" Leo asked as he stood up, watching as Max threw on his coat and hat.

"We're going home, Leo."

"What for?"

"Damn it, you heard the note—we've got waffles to make!"


	7. The Consequences of Bad Waffles

**Chapter Seven**

"You're killing the batter!"

"I am not!"

"Yes, you are!"

"Oh, Max, this is ridiculous! We've been cooking these things for three days straight. How many waffles can one phantom eat?"

"Hey, the first batch didn't count, remember? We were rehearsing the 'Christine dies' scene and waffles came raining down on our heads and a thundering voice boomed, 'I gave you a _recipe_! How hard is it to follow a recipe? You call these_ waffles_?'."

"Don't remind me," Leo said with a shudder, reaching for his blanket.

"Well, we learned our lesson, didn't we? Now, come on, the iron's ready."

Roger walked with the utmost care, carrying the plate that contained the ultimate waffle breakfast. Max and Leo had been slaving all day, but the newest batch was ready. He gingerly placed the plate in the designated place and dashed away, back out onto the safety of the brightly lit stage.

"I did it!" he exclaimed, wiping his brow as if he had run fifty miles.

"Good, good," Max said, "The Phantom should leave us alone now. We did what he asked."

There were murmurs of agreement from the cast onstage.

"All right," Max said, "Let's go into the opening of Act Two!"

The rehearsing of Act Two was in full swing when suddenly, a moan came from the rafters.

"Okay, Mr. Creepy Phantom, what now?" Max yelled.

The moaning continued.

"We get it—you're a creepy ghost, now what is it?"

There was a retching sound and a brown liquid dropped from the rafters, splattering all over Franz.

"Ewwwwwwwwwwww!" he cried. "Vomit! There is vomit on my head! It's disgusting!"

He danced around wildly for a few moments, but had to move quickly to get out of the way as a figure dropped from the rafters and landed on the stage, laying there, moaning and clutching his stomach. A ring of people soon gathered around him, including Max and Leo. The figure rolled onto his back. Everyone could see he was wearing a full faced black leather mask.

"What . . . did you put in those waffles?" moaned the figure just before he vomited again.

"Dr. Brian, thank you again for coming on such short notice," Max said as the doctor was leaving.

"Don't mention it," Dr. Brian said, "Oh, and here's the bill."

Max stared.

"$500?" he exclaimed.

"Take it or leave it."

"Fine!" Max grumbled, paying the doctor as he left.

Max turned as Leo emerged from the greenroom.

"How is he, buddy? Are they bringing him out soon?"

"Very shortly," Leo said.

As if on cue, Carmen and Roger came out of the greenroom, wheeling the figure out in a wheelchair. The figure had since informed everyone that he was Erik, the Phantom of the Opera. He was wrapped in blankets, his eyes glassy with fatigue.

"Max, Leo," he said, feebly, "I have a few matters to discuss with you. Since it appears that my once-good health has now taken a turn for the worse, I am going to add another $65,000 to the money which I am already suing you for because of your production of _The Phantom of Manhattan_. I also insist that, since my now weakened condition is due entirely to_ your_ stupidity, it is your responsibility to see to my recovery: I except a fried egg sandwich and a cup of coffee at my bedside when I arise. And speaking of my rest, my physician has advised me that, while I am recovering, I sleep until noon; therefore, I must have_ quiet_—," he sent a scorching glare at Leo and Ulla, "—throughout the theater until that time. I take my coffee with flavored cream—French Vanilla, made by CoffeMate, and _don't _try and sneak me the sugar free kind, I can detect that disgusting variety by merely tasting a drop of it."

"Monsieur Erik, wait just a moment—," Leo began timidly.

"You may not interrupt me, sir. I have suffered a great deal of damage from you, and in exchange, I am only asking you to reassure the restoration of my health and well being."

"Your breakfast choice doesn't seem very healthy, I mean, a fried egg sandwich and a cup of French Vanilla flavored coffee at your bedside . . .?"

"_Yes_!" Erik suddenly screamed, "Or would you rather me add another $5,000 to the suing amount?"

There was a pause.

"Do you like the yolk of your fried egg slightly runny or solid?" Max asked with a grin.


	8. Gwen Arrives

**Chapter Eight**

"You're stubborn. You son-of-a-biscuit! Give it to me!"

"No!"

"Yes!"

"No!"

"Give—it—to—me!"

A lasso was around Leo's neck.

"Fine."

He handed Erik the box of See's molasses chips; Erik all but tore the lid off and dove into the candy like a madman. Leo leaned exhaustedly against the wall, his eyes closed. Erik had been "recuperating" for only a week, and he was already driving the cast and crew to the brink of insanity. If his breakfast was not at his bedside the moment he opened his eyes, the entire theater was soon echoing with his enraged screams, he insisted on being wheeled out in his wheelchair to watch rehearsals, which he constantly interrupted with infuriated lectures that made even Franz quake in his boots, and he would often do something very Phantom-esque for the sheer reason of annoying the hell out of his caretakers. Now, hungrily wolfing down his beloved See's molasses chips, Erik looked like an alpha male wolf guarding his scrap of meat from the rest of the pack. At that moment, Ulla entered the greenroom and gasped at seeing Erik with the box of candy in his lap.

"Monsieur!" she exclaimed, "The candy, it—it is bad for you, and you are sick! Don't you think . . .?"

Erik turned to her, _very slowly._

"The late Mme Marie Giry ate a whole box of English sweets once a week her entire life. She lived to the ripe age of seventy-seven, and when I attended her funeral and looked at her in the casket, she had been dead for five days . . . and she looked better than you do at this very moment."

It took a minute for Ulla to realize the insult in this little tidbit of a story, but once she had, she turned and walked from the room, near tears. Leo followed her, glaring at Erik when he was not looking.

"Nooo! No, no, no, no, no!" Erik screamed, hitting the armrests of his wheelchair like a child throwing a temper tantrum.

Erik was sitting in his usual place out in the house. Onstage, Franz and Ulla stopped what they were doing and turned to look at him. Erik rolled his eyes at Ulla, resting his cheek in his hand.

"If you are_ going_ to have my child, I want to see a little expression in your face during his conception," Erik said dryly.

"What?" Leo exclaimed, entering the house at that moment, trying to make his blue blanket look as tough and threatening as possible.

"Relax, Casanova," Max said to him as he sat down, "Erik didn't mean anything—we're running the 'Pierre's conception' scene again."

Leo nodded, relaxing.

"And _you_," Erik continued, glaring at Franz, "Look, I don't speak German, so I don't know exactly what the hell it is you're screaming up there during this scene, but I want it out. This is a graceful ballet meant to be innuendo, not a risqué, cheaply-acted love scene. So enough with the screams of passion, pigeon-feeder, or I will be forced to have you sit in the audience and watch how I myself would behave if I were ever lucky enough to ever find myself in a situation such as the one this horrid plot has so kindly provided for you. Does Erik make himself exceptionally, perfectly clear?"

Franz and Ulla nodded.

"Good. Begin the scene again."

The next day, everyone showed up at rehearsal, as usual. Erik was seated out in the house, as usual. However, there was one unusual thing about the scene they saw—a cat was sitting in his lap, a black cat.

"What—what is_ that_?" Carmen asked fearfully, pointing a finger at the cat.

"This," Erik said with a devious smile, stroking the cat in his lap with his long, elegant fingers and looking like a villain straight out of a cheesy action movie, "Is Gwen. She likes to jump on things."

"Well, get her out of here!"

"No!" Erik said, his voice suddenly that of a protesting little boy, "Erik loves his kitty!"

He snuggled the cat lovingly, cooing at her. Everyone stared.

"Is anyone else as disturbed by this scene as I am?" Max asked and there were murmurs of agreement from the cast onstage.

"Uh, Erik, this scene is . . . very touching, but you_ do_ know it's bad luck for a black cat to be in a theater, don't you?"

"Of course," Erik said, "I invented the superstition."

There was a pause.

"Okay, just exactly how old_ are_ you?" Max asked.

"None of your business," Erik replied haughtily.

"Fine, fine, let's just get to rehearsal, everyone."

"Good," the masked man said, smiling.

"Meow," Gwen agreed.

"Max, Max, we never should have started this. I mean, Erik being with us for over a month and still feeling sick—no matter how many new batches of waffles we make him—and he keeps interrupting rehearsals every five minutes, and now he's brought that cat! Are you sure we're not in too deep yet?" Leo asked as they walked to meet Carmen and Roger at a restaurant for dinner that night.

"We'll_ be_ in too deep when I _say_ we're in too deep, Leo! If the man wants to bring his cat to rehearsal, why shouldn't he?"

"It doesn't look as innocent as just that, Max. He said Gwen likes to jump on things."

"He's a raving lunatic, Leo, if you haven't already noticed. Besides, what the hell does that mean, anyway? She likes to jump on things?"

"I don't know, but I don't like it," Leo said as they pulled the door open to the restaurant.

Back at the theater, Erik was sitting alone with Gwen. He placed a treat where he wanted her to jump and watched in delight as she leapt up eagerly to get it, her delicate little paw landing exactly where he wanted it.

"Good kitty! Yes, you are, my good girl!" he cooed, petting her. "Now it's just a matter of time."

"Meow," agreed Gwen, nibbling in a ladylike manner on the treat as her master pet her.


	9. Revealing the Plan

**Chapter Nine**

"Come on, come on, let's go, people!" Erik shouted.

"Okay!" Franz exclaimed, grinning.

"We can do it! We can do it!" Leo sang happily.

"Shut up," Erik said, glaring.

Tensions were high. The last week of rehearsal in which all the technical aspects and dress rehearsals happened—a week known in the business as "tech week"—would be upon our heroes in two weeks. Erik now sat in the house, impatiently drumming his fingers on the armrest of his wheelchair.

"Erik was_ not_ pleased to see all those reporters outside the theater. Erik thought he told you to get rid of them and make it appear as if_ The Phantom of Manhattan_ never happened!"

"Erik, it's impossible. You know the press—once they get a hold of something, they don't let go," Max said.

"Erik—doesn't—_care!_" Erik screamed. "Now, get onstage and start rehearsing immediately!"

They obeyed. Rehearsal began with Raoul's lament to the audience about how he knew Pierre was not his son. Ricardo, glittery as usual, sang the baritone-scored song with a high, choirboy voice.

"For the love of Mrs. Butterworth's syrup—which, by the way, you didn't put on my last serving of waffles—what is wrong with you?" Erik shouted at him. "I have been giving you lessons for weeks, boy, and you_ still_ cannot hit the notes the score specifies!"

"I told you—I can't!"

There was a pause, then, Erik summoned the entire cast and crew onstage.

"Okay, stay with me here, we're going to make an analogy. Erik would like you all to consider his patience and happiness as, oh, let's say, a chocolate ice cream cone on a hot summer's day: You always thought the cool, creamy, chocolaty wonderland of bliss would be there to caress your taste buds with its goodness, but, lo and behold, thanks to the erosion you and the hot summer sun caused, within minutes, it was gone forever. Just like my patience and happiness are now."

A too-sweet-to-be-real smile was plastered on Erik's face, his arms crossed.

"Excuse me, Mr. Phantom," Ulla said, waving cheerily at him, "But, you look very happy right now."

"Ulla," Erik asked slowly, "Have you ever used rope?"

Her face flushed.

"Well, actually, yes. Once, at 11:00—."

Erik pulled out a rope.

"I have some_ right here_," he said in a mockingly sensual voice.

Ulla's eyes widened. Erik twisted the rope into a Punjab.

"And we're rehearsing your death scene now, so if you don't wipe that sugary sweet, innocent little girl look off your face right now, I swear to Lon Chaney, Sr. I will strangle it off you. Now_ get onstage_ and be dramatically tragic for once in your life!"

"Erik, how dare you talk to my wife that way!" Leo said, shaking his blue blanket in Erik's face. "You have been completely disrespectful to us all and I demand you apologize to the entire cast and crew immediately, otherwise we will be forced to . . . to . . ."

Leo began to have a hysterics attack, his soft blue blanket trembling along with him. Erik stared at him, unimpressed.

"Okay, Linus, you have had _way_ too much caffeine this morning. I want you to take your blue blankie and go have a time out."

Ulla led Leo comfortingly offstage. Erik glanced at his watch—10:47 a.m.

Max was worried. Erik was being a complete dictator, but the show was still progressing slowly but surely in spite of it. If this show was going to flop in two weeks' time, he needed something drastic to happen.

"Excuse me, Erik, might I have a word with you?" Max said after everyone else had left the theater that night.

"Certainly, Mr. Bialystock," Erik said, sitting with Gwen in his lap.

"Well, listen, I want to let you in on a little secret. It's about my real intentions for the production of this show . . . things aren't exactly as they seem."

Erik turned to Max, a deviously intrigued sparkle in his eyes.

"Erik's listening . . ."


	10. Gwen Springs into Action

**Chapter Ten**

The plan was perfect. Max smiled to himself as he opened the door to the theater next morning. He had talked everything out with Erik, and once he had revealed his plan, the masked man had burst into peals of laughter.

"That is simply brilliant," he had said, then, his expression saddened. "Oh, and all the grief I've been giving you all this time, and here you were just trying to help expose the farce that trashy novel really is! Erik is so sorry, can you ever forgive him?"

"Forget it, Erik—just help me ensure it to fail, and we'll be even."

"Deal."

Now, Max walked through the dark hall that led to the stage. Leo met him onstage.

"Max, Max, something's horribly wrong," Leo said. "We can't find Erik. Or Gwen—they're both gone."

"So?"

"So?" Carmen repeated, rushing up to them, waving his hands around animatedly. "_So_? Max, do you realize what this means?"

"No—enlighten me," Max said dryly, leaning against the wall.

"It means that we have a mysterious phantom running amok in this theater!" Roger yelled from up in the sound booth where he had been checking the sound system.

"Phantom! The theater's been invaded by a phantom!" sang Carmen, terrified.

"Not now! It's too early in the morning to be bursting into the Yeston and Kopit musical!" Max groaned, referencing to the not-as-popular _Phantom_ musical by Maury Yeston and Arthur Kopit.

"I love that show!" Ricardo exclaimed, running out from the wings. He instantly burst into a horrid rendition of "Melodie de Paris".

"Oy," Max muttered.

He tipped his head back, glancing up into the dark flies above in despair, but his face brightened when he saw Erik peering down at him, the masked man's eyes dancing with a smile.

#

"From the top, everyone, let's go!" Leo called later that afternoon. The cast was rehearsing the scene where Pierre removed Erik's mask, looked at his face, and didn't scream or run away. It was probably one of the cheesiest scenes in the whole show. Pierre—who was played by a cute little kid named Steve—reached up and removed the mask. Just when the audience would be able to see Franz's face, a rain of a thick, yellowish substance came raining down on his head from up above. Everyone was too busy screaming in a panic to notice that Max remained unshaken.

"What _is_ that?" Steve cried, backing away in horror.

Franz, now covered in the goop, looked like the Creature from the Slightly Yellow Lagoon. He licked the substance away from the corners of his mouth, shock crossing his face.

"It's . . . it's . . . vanilla pudding!" he cried, just as horrified as everyone else. "I _hate_ pudding! Who would do such a thing?"

"Perhaps it's a sign," Max said, "That the show is not meant to be."

There was a pause, then, Franz stood triumphantly, shoulders back, head held tall, looking everything like a pudding-drenched superhero.

"Never!" he exclaimed. "The show _will_ go on!"

"But Franz—."

"Silence! We Nazis were taught to fear nothing—not even the horrors of pudding!"

"The horrors of pudding?" Max asked after a pause, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes! You have no _idea_ how evil pudding can be, but that's because the BBC _blocked it from its broadcasts!_"

"Of course they did," Max said reassuringly.

At this point, Franz glanced over at Ulla.

"Would you like to help me clean up?" he asked sensually.

He tried to wink at her, but the pudding was dripping down into his eyes.

#

"Erik, this isn't working!" Max exclaimed.

The two men had met in secret at the local coffee shop. It was three in the morning, but they had decided to meet late to avoid being seen.

"You think I don't know that?" Erik asked, annoyed. "I poured as much damn pudding on him as I could find and he didn't run away in terror like we predicted!"

"This is getting scary—nothing is shaking their confidence!"

"Don't worry—we'll find something."

"But _what_?"

There was a pause.

"I think," Erik said, sipping his coffee deviously, "That we're going to have to take some drastic action."

"What do you mean?"

Erik pulled his cup away from his lips, setting it down slowly on the table.

"Here, kitty, kitty, kitty . . ." was all he said.

Max was completely confused—and a little creeped out—until he saw the flap of Erik's shoulder bag moving and Gwen's furry little black head poked out of it. She meowed as if to say, "You called, Master?"

Erik smiled, scratching the cat behind the ears and she purred happily.

"Yes, I did, my dear."

#

Gwen carefully walked down into the orchestra pit. Her delicate little paws made no noise as she tiptoed around the music stands. At last, she reached the place where Master had rehearsed with her and she sat, waiting for the familiar cue. She purred happily and began grooming herself while she waited. She wanted to look her best when she finally did what she had been training so hard for. She loved her master very much and wanted to do everything she could to please him and he had told her repeatedly that doing this would make him very happy.

"Steve, I need you to come downstage just a _little_ bit more," Erik said in a very sugary sweet voice.

"Mr. Erik, if I come downstage any further, I'll fall into the orchestra pit!"

"Then I suggest you _project_ more!" Erik shouted.

Steve blinked, tears coming to his eyes.

"You made this cute little boy cry?" Franz asked, horrified, running out from where he had been backstage getting fitted for his costume. "You are _so_ cruel!"

He immediately ran over to Steve and hugged the little boy.

"And _what_," Erik roared, "Is _that_?"

He was referring to Franz's costume. Instead of the black suit, cape, mask, and fedora one would expect Erik to be wearing, Franz was clad in a Hawaiian print shirt, a Jack O'Lantern-orange cape, a festively colorful mask with a long, beaklike nose that looked like something straight from Mardi Gras, and a cheap, touristy-looking, wide-brimmed straw hat.

"I'll kill you. I'll really, really kill you," Erik said, staring at Franz.

"I _like_ it! It is so colorful and happy!" Franz exclaimed and began spontaneously singing and dancing around.

"Forget about the happy colors," Erik said, "Let's just run the scene where Raoul and Pierre have their big song together, okay?"

Ricardo and Steve stood onstage together as the beginning of the scene directed. Their song was called "Father"—Pierre sang of how much Raoul meant to him whilst Raoul sang of how he knew he was not Pierre's biological father.

"Ready?" Erik called from his seat in the house and the two onstage nodded.

"All right—go!"

Down in the orchestra pit, Gwen heard Master say the cue. She leapt from the stool where she was sitting, scratching the pianist on the hands, and she began to run like a mad kitty across the keys, making the most atrocious racket anyone ever heard.

"What on earth is going on down there?" Leo asked as he rushed down the aisle towards the pit and he called to the pianist as he ran, "Are you all right?"

"A cat! A cat!" the pianist cried, running out of the pit, sneezing, his hands bleeding, his eyes watering. "I'm allergic to cats!"

Rehearsal was cancelled so that the pianist could go to the pharmacy and the piano could be retuned. Erik and Max left smiling. They treated themselves to lunch that day.

"Phase One is complete," Max said, smiling.

He picked up his drink.

"Now here's to Gwen."

"Amen to that!" Erik said as they clinked glasses.


	11. The Final Blow

Author's Note: Hi, guys! So sorry this took so long. Anyway, this is the final chapter. I hope you enjoy. :)

**Chapter Eleven**

"Gwen will have to act quickly," Erik said as he and Max sat in the coffee shop that had become their late-night meeting place. "She's going to have to go on maternity leave soon from her duties."

Max smiled down at the black cat that sat in Erik's lap.

"So, she's expecting kittens?"

"Yes. Apparently, the local tomcat took a liking to her. I know because I heard them, er, 'courting'."

Max nodded.

"Well, congratulations, Gwen," he said, reaching over to scratch her on the ears.

Gwen meowed her thanks.

#

"I'm not going to tell you again, I'm really not. The next time you make Pierre's conception scene look like something that could only come from an as-over-the-top-as-humanly-possible '80s music video, I swear to Lon Chaney, Sr.—who I have a tremendous amount of respect and admiration for, as should all involved with _Phantom_—I'm going to hurt you. As for you, you overly-sensitive, pigeon-feeding, pathetic excuse for a Nazi, if you could at least _try_ to keep your pants on during this scene, I'd appreciate it and so would everyone else in this theater. Even if you're still wearing your underwear, no one wants to see that part of your body, especially if said part has been brainwashed into a racist who thinks it, after finding a pristine virgin who meets a strict line of criteria, can create little superhuman Günters who will go running around eventually ruling the world after they've shamelessly wiped out everyone else, all right? Now zip up your pants and don't let me see them even remotely undone or I'll personally see to it your role will be especially altered to be performed by a falsetto voice, you got me?"

Everyone stared, flabbergasted at Erik's rant. No one moved onstage. Even Max, who was in on it, was taken aback. What no one except Max and Erik knew was that Franz had just stumbled in at the wrong time—Erik would have picked on whoever happened to "make a mistake"—regardless if they really had or not—because he was giving Gwen time once again to sneak to the orchestra pit.

#

Gwen tiptoed to the orchestra pit again. None of the musicians were seated at their stands, which was good. She leapt up onto a stool and stretched her paws towards the black stand Master had identified as a "scratching post". It looked different from the scratching post she had at home—there was a thick stack of paper on this one with strange markings on it that looked like little black bugs crawling across little paths . . . hmm, maybe it was a new line of scratching posts? Nonetheless, she reached out and scratched.

Oh, that felt good. _Yes,_ it felt good! She growled happily to herself, digging her claws into the paper and dragging them down, arching her back. This was a great scratching post. She couldn't wait to use all the other ones that sat in the orchestra pit.

#

When screams of horror came from the orchestra pit, Max and Erik knew it was over. Gwen came bounding happily up the aisle, leaping into her master's lap. He petted her, noticing she had bits of paper under her claws.

"Good girl, good girl," he encouraged as she sat purring happily in his lap.

"I'll say she is," Max said smiling, reaching over to scratch Gwen under her chin.

Gwen tipped her head back, her eyes closing. She licked Max's hand for a minute after he finished petting her, then, she bit it.

"She's a feisty one," Max said, laughing slightly, rubbing his hand.

"She indeed is," Erik agreed.

"No, no, no, the score is ruined!" Franz cried, pulling on his hair.

"Whatever will we do?" Carmen wailed.

"Fear not," Erik said, sounding amazingly somber, "It will rest in peace in the Never-Produced-Musicals Graveyard."

And they ceremoniously buried the shredded score.

#

"Now, Erik," Leo said, several months after the sequel's demise, "I think you could be an interesting addition to our team."

"Care to join Leo and me on our adventures on the Great White Way?" Max added.

They were sitting in Erik's house, on the floor. Gwen sat in a basket that was lined with a soft blue blanket—Leo's actually, as he had lent it to her for this special occasion—and her five kittens were clustered around her. Three of the kittens were black, like their mother, while the other two were a more smoky gray color.

"Perhaps, on some future projects," Erik said reflectively, "But, just so I am not forgotten until then . . ."

He picked up one of the smoky gray kittens and handed it to Max.

"Awww, thank you, Erik!" Max said, smiling, and, after checking the kitten's gender with a quick look beneath the tail, he added, "I think we'll call you . . . Diana."

"A good name," Erik said, his eyes sparkling.

They put Diana back in the basket with her brothers and sisters and stood up, leaving the leaving room.

"Now, I am a tad hungry," Erik said, striding purposefully into the kitchen, "Shall I whip us up something to eat?"

The two men nodded and Erik set to work.

"I'm glad the sequel went down quietly," Leo said, he and Max sitting at the counter, perched on barstools as Erik worked.

"Indeed," Erik said. "It's good that the press didn't ask too many questions—had there been a big hoopla about it . . . I wouldn't have liked that."

The two men gulped, for Erik's voice had grown serious with the last few words, but they were reassured when he turned to them and said,

"Coffee?"

They nodded and he brewed a pot. Once it was done, he poured the rich, homey liquid into three mugs and handed two to his guests, pulling a bottle of flavored cream from the refrigerator and sliding it over to them after he had used it. The two men sweetened their coffee according to preference and before anyone took a sip, Max raised his mug.

"Here's to the obscurity of the sequel!"

"Cheers," Erik said as they clashed their mugs together. "And I think we should celebrate with . . ."

"Waffles?" Max and Leo chorused together, both of them smiling as Erik started to pour the now-prepared batter into his Belgian waffle iron, his eyes dancing behind the mask.


End file.
